


Blood and Foam

by khazadspoon



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, M/M, Multi, flint is a wrathful god of the sea, miranda is a sea witch by force, now with added miranda and better grammar, sea-god au, thomas gets rescued and alfred hamilton gets Stabbed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khazadspoon/pseuds/khazadspoon
Summary: Tales of the man who walked on fog, a lantern in one hand and a bloody sword in the other, a man called Flint who left death in his wake, were old. They had been passed down by mouth from generation to generation. The towns from Bude to Padstow to Penzance were filled with people having claimed to see the apparition. But few truly had.On a foggy morning in September, Miranda became one of those few.





	1. Prologue

Fury came first. Hot and burning, tears that stung and screams that tore her throat. Pots and chairs broken as her rage filled the room in the wake of what had been taken from her.

Then came determination. Cold and unforgiving, the knowledge of the wrong done to her freezing the rage in her veins. The songs and poems of her mother and grandmother came to her in broken memories. Books, hidden beneath floorboards with stones and chalk. The pages were old and filled with words written in dark ink. Some was in english, some not, and she had to search her memories to make sense of them.

Miranda Hamilton, the wife of Thomas, and daughter of Esther, took her mother’s book and walked to the sea. In a cove by the shore, she spilt her blood upon wet rocks and burned the last words her husband had written to her.

In a cove by the shore, she called on the sea itself to aid her.

—

Tales of the man who walked on fog, a lantern in one hand and a bloody sword in the other, a man called Flint who left death in his wake, were old. They had been passed down by mouth from generation to generation. The towns from Bude to Padstow to Penzance were filled with people having claimed to see the apparition. But few truly had. There had been rumours spread by sailors coming from the New World as well, and some returning from the East. The sailors were few in number, just as those on the coast of England.

On a foggy morning in September, Miranda became one of those few to know the truth.

A figure approached from the waves clothed in black, an unlit lantern in one hand and a sword glistening with blood in the other, only the dim light of approaching dawn outlining him. As he set foot on the sand and stepped up on the scattered rocks, the lantern flickered to life. Miranda held in her gasp at the pale face before her, stark and angular, flaming red hair tied back and kept in place by coral and shells. He had a beard just as red as his hair framing his jaw, mouth pulled down in a frown.

“Who summons me?” He asked, voice deep and rolling, crashing against her mind like a storm and pulling away like the tide. She felt dizzy, had to fight to keep her balance where she stood with her mother’s book in hand. The pages crinkled beneath her fingers as she tightened her grip.

“I am Miranda Hamilton, daughter of Esther Cohen. I have summoned you to take revenge on the ones who have wronged me,” she said with all the strength she could muster. 

Flint held her gaze with shocking green eyes. He lifted the lantern and she realised his face was dripping with seawater, a deep cut on his right cheek oozing blood. The bright red hair curled about his ears, shortened and brightened before her eyes. “You know who you summon, witch?”

“Yes,” Miranda replied.

“You know what I do?”

“You kill.”

He nodded once, put the lantern on the floor and strode forward to take her hand. He lifted the cut on her finger to his mouth and tasted the blood, fire flashing behind his eyes before he took his sword in hand and pressed her finger to it. Then, with deliberate slowness, he drew the blade across his palm and cupped her cheek. She wanted to recoil at the barbaric motion, wanted to draw away and wash the sickly cold blood from her skin, but part of her leant into the touch.

This man, this…  _ thing _ , was how she would kill Alfred Hamilton for taking her husband from her. 


	2. One

His first thought upon waking was this -  _ they’ll think I’m dead _ .

His second thought was this -  _ perhaps it’s better that way _ .

The sand was cool and wet between his toes, waves gently lapping at his feet and calves as the sun beat down on him from above. Dimly, as though it lingered from long ago, he tasted copper and salt. Perhaps it had been from a cut on his lip, perhaps he had bitten his tongue; it didn’t seem to matter much given his circumstances.

Thomas opened his eyes slowly and wondered how in God’s name he had ended up wherever he was. It was hot, the sky was clear and so blue it almost seemed like a painting. He gazed transfixed at the only cloud meandering across the sky. Thomas lay on his back for long minutes as the water cooled his skin, drew closer and closer to his neck. Thomas wondered if he would be swept away again. If he was to live, if he was to escape and find rescue, he would have to leave that thought behind. 

He got up on shaking legs and dragged himself further to the canopy of trees and the blessing of shade they provided. The salt and copper on his tongue had faded further, but the aching in his chest from too much seawater and not enough air was hard to ignore. He sat under a tree, back against the trunk, and prayed for salvation. Prayer had always come easily to his lips, even as a child. He took comfort in the simple repetition. 

As the sun set he was forced to find shelter, something more substantial than a tree. Briefly, he remembered one of the servants at his father’s summer home teaching him about fire making and set about doing something,  _ anything _ , to keep warm. He broke large sticks to form a small unlit pyre, kept longer sticks to cover with leaves for a roof over his head, and found rocks he might be able to bash a spark from.

It took an hour for it to work, but Thomas felt a rush of pride when the fire sputtered into life. He fed it carefully and pulled his knees to his aching chest.

“Lord, hear my prayer,” he whispered into the flames. “Keep Miranda safe. She will be angry, scared, worried… Let her know I’m alive, that I am unharmed - for the most part, at least. And lend me your strength so that I might go home.”

Thomas took a deep breath and stared out into the darkness. He wondered if a passing ship might see his fire. He wondered if anyone else lived on the island he had washed up on.

He wondered again how it had happened.

Alfred Hamilton, his father, had sent men for him in the night. He was to be taken by force out of the country and to one of the colonies across the Atlantic. His father had said his latest transgression was “one too far” - he had been caught with a lover. The man had been of a lower class, his name and reputation little known to anyone of consequence, but he had been sweet and kind and had touched Thomas with tenderness.

For all Thomas knew he might be dead already. His father was brutal and cared more for reputation than for human life.

The ship his father had put him on was bound for Carolina. He was to be kept hidden away by the governor there, to be taught (if possible) how to behave like a man of his station ought to behave. But the ship had been caught in a storm that seemed to come from nowhere. It had capsized after being almost torn apart. The men on board had shouted and screamed, the mizzen mast had fallen and toppled the main and fore masts as it went. Thomas had watched in horror as yards of rope and sail fell to the deck and crushed men beneath them. He had no idea if any of them survived. The ship that was to bring his father a few weeks later would no doubt make port in the New World to news of his death among the others.

If his father thought him dead, that would be a blessing. Being found and taken to his father would only result in his life being ended some other way. He shivered at the thought, saw in his mind the blank look his father had always given him and wanted to be sick. 

The night passed slowly. He didn’t sleep much, but he hadn’t expected to either. There was no sound to be heard but wind and waves.  _ So much for other people _ , he thought.

The next day his throat was raw and his stomach in knots. He found fruit, small berries, and nuts that seemed safe to eat. He ventured further inland and found a stream leading down to the shore. A taste of the water found it sweet, not salty, and he made himself sick by gulping it down too quickly. 

With water in his belly and some small amount of food, he felt his mind returning to itself. He needed to do something, to make his presence known somehow if he was to get off the island he had been stranded on.

The days after that, four in total, were much the same. The weather stayed mercifully temperate and though he was hungrier than he could ever remember being, he kept the fire going and looked for rescue at every moment. On his brief trips to the clear stream his stomach turned with anxiety; what if someone came and he was gone? He rushed back to the beach each time and sobbed to find himself still alone.

On the fifth day, he saw sails.

The ship didn’t seem overly large, a small merchant vessel if anything, but the sight of it filled Thomas with both fantastical joy and deep terror. He thought of his father taking him back, forcing him into irons again and dosing him with laudanum until the world faded to dull colour and muffled sound.

_ It won’t happen _ , he thought fiercely,  _ I won’t  _ **_let_ ** _ it happen. I’ll die before I let that happen again _ .

He watched as the sails drew closer and moved towards his island. As they came towards the shore Thomas began to see the rigging, saw figures moving about and preparing to drop the anchor and slow the ship to a stop. The fear dissolved and the excitement, the relief, began to flood his veins. 

With a rush of movement, he ran to the beach and flung his arms in the air, shouted at the top of his lungs “I’m here! I’m here! Dear  _ God _ , I’m here!”

But no reply came. The ship stayed offshore, it’s sails furled up and tied in place. No dinghy came to fetch him. He watched in stunned silence as the sun began to go down again. He screamed again, words dissolving into hoarse cries of terror as night drew further in. His pitiful fire began to splutter and smoke. Thomas’ heart sank further as stars began to appear. Maybe they hadn’t seen him, perhaps it was all coincidence and he was to remain on the island until starvation set in. 

Thomas took his eyes from the ship and looked up at the sky. Stars shimmered, flickered, like pinpricks in the fabric of heaven and Thomas imagined angels peeking through to see how he fared. Prideful, he supposed, to think angels cared what happened to him… but that had always been his sin, hadn’t it?

The sound of crunching sand distracted him. He turned, his heart beating like thunder in his chest, and saw-

A  _ man _ . Not a tall man, though his shoulders were broad. The long black leather coat billowed behind him and made his presence all the more imposing. Thomas saw the lantern dangling from one hand and looked behind him for a boat. There was nothing, just the sea.

“Who-”

“Who are you,” the man said. It hardly sounded like a question. Dark eyes stared out at him from an angular face and Thomas felt something in his stomach flutter. 

He swallowed thickly. “Thomas Hamilton. Who are you?”

The figure’s face twitched, one pointed eyebrow rising. “ _ You’re _ Thomas Hamilton?” He asked incredulously. Thomas almost laughed - it was the least insulted someone had been by his presence for some time. The strange man was almost interested in him. The figure straightened and Thomas saw the glint of metal at his side, the presence of the lantern and sword striking something in his memory. What was the story Miranda had told him all those years ago, when they were still unmarried? He grappled for it, tried to rifle through the dense forest of treasured memories he had of her.

The memory was confirmed as true when the man revealed his name.

“I am Flint, Captain of the Walrus. And I’m here to return you to your wife.”


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas is taken to the Walrus where he meets with Flint again.

Questions filled his mind as the man in front of him, Captain Flint, waited for him to respond. He found his tongue stuck to the top of his mouth for what may have been the first time in his life. Words failed him.

“Will you come with me?” Captain Flint said in a low rasping voice. “Decide, but decide quickly. We’ll lose the wind if you wait much longer and I can’t risk that. Yours is not the only life I hold in my hands.”

Thomas shook his head in disbelief at the situation. But, with what felt like monumental effort, he made himself speak. “I’ll come with you,” he replied, taking a hesitant step towards the figure.

Captain Flint nodded once, sharply, and indicated for Thomas to follow.

“Excuse me, but… how will we get to your ship?” Thomas asked and felt a little stupid as he did so.

Flint turned and raised one sharp brow. “You’ll be rowed by Billy. I have a matter to attend to and will see you aboard.”

He turned, walked into the sea, and vanished into the darkness.

Thomas opened and closed his mouth a few times without making a sound. The captain had disappeared and left him. He was alone again. As fear settled in the pit of his belly he thought of the month he had been left in Bethlam before his father had come to collect him. The screams and babbling of the other inmates, the cold and shocking ice baths. He remembered the darkness that had fallen with the sun. Thomas had curled into a ball in the corner of the room and prayed almost feverishly for morning to come, and the light with it. 

The sound of sand on wood met his ears and a voice called to him. “C’mon, we haven’t got all night.”

He turned and saw a small boat with a single lantern hanging from some sort of makeshift pole. In the boat was a strikingly handsome (and strikingly  _ large _ ) man with an impatient look on his face. Thomas swallowed thickly and rushed to the dinghy, clambouring in with very little grace.

“Won’t take long to get to the Walrus, the Captain’ll want to see you well fed and put to bed when we get there. Don’t worry Mr Hamilton, we’ll have you home before long.”

“I beg your pardon but who are you?” He asked, eyeing the delightful play of muscle as the young man began to row them away from the shore and out towards the ship floating in the distance.

The handsome youth gave him an equally handsome smile, bright teeth glinting in the lamplight. The smile wasn’t entirely friendly. “I’m Billy, Billy Bones, bo’sun of the Walrus and one of the few sane men on it.”

Thomas sat back and let the rest of the trip happen in silence. He watched the ship draw closer, saw dancing lights from the windows of the main cabin and wondered if the captain was in there or if it was another occupant. Either way, it was unknown what awaited him on the ship.

Billy was kind enough to let him ascend a hastily thrown down ladder first. As Thomas came over the top he was met with a few faces from various parts of the deck, all pretending they were busy. One man with very little hair was winding a rope around his arm. Another, dark-skinned and wearing some sort of paint on his face, was pouring small vials of oil into unlit lamps. Thomas was suddenly enchanted by the small actions, the small things that maintained a ship. He fought the urge to go and ask each man questions. 

He jumped slightly as Billy appeared behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “This way. The cook will have made something to eat. There’s also plenty of space below deck for you to sleep - I’ll let you have my cot, it’s out of the way and has enough privacy so you won’t wake up to any of these ugly mugs in the morning.”

One of the men made a disgruntled sound and another shouted “oi!” Thomas found his heart began to beat wildly with hysteria as laughter bubbled into his throat. He stuttered his thanks and followed the man down into the bowels of the ship. He ate a small meal of bread, surprisingly soft and well-baked, and cold meats. Billy muttered something under his breath about getting a new cook who could  _ actually _ cook before ushering them on.

Laying in the cot and looking up at the wood above his head, Thomas fought the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He shivered violently as his body came down from whatever rushed heights it had taken itself to. He struggled with the strangeness of the situation and the unknown that faced him. Captain Flint had said he would return Thomas to Miranda, that that was why he was there.

Thomas wanted to believe him.

Thomas wanted to go  _ home _ , to see Miranda and to kiss her again, to feel the softness of her hands and smell the sweet perfume she wore dabbed delicately on her neck and wrists. He missed her with a terrible longing that clawed at his heart like a rabid wolf.

But no matter what he wanted to believe there was always the looming terror of his father. 

Eventually, he fell asleep and was woken by thumping from above, voices calling in unison in some strange and mournful song. He couldn’t hear the lyrics but he didn’t have to. It had been months since he had heard music and he soaked in the lilting tones with his eyes shut and a smile creeping onto his face even as his lips trembled.

A knock drew him from his thoughts. His eyes flicked open and he looked up at yet another new face. The new man was tall and broad, though not as much so as Billy, and had a rugged beard covering his chin and cheeks. His eyes were large and he looked down at Thomas with a stern but honest expression. “No time for breakfast I’m afraid, you’ll be able to get some biscuits with the others soon but Flint wants to see you. He’s on the quarterdeck at the moment, need me to take you up?”

He nodded, slipping out of the cot with shaking legs. Thomas was amazed that he couldn’t feel the motion of the ship beneath his feet. As the new not-quite-as-big-as-Billy man led him up to the main deck he marvelled at the parts of a ship he had never gotten to see on his previous voyage. The crew’s quarters were dark but warm, and the light as they moved up onto the main deck was startlingly bright. Thomas gazed up at the sails as they billowed in the wind, saw the taught lengths of rope holding them in place and gasped as a man swung easily from one rope to another with no sign of hesitation at all. The insinuation of height alone was enough to make Thomas’ empty stomach churn. 

When they got to the quarterdeck Captain Flint was facing out to the ocean with his hands behind his back. “That will be all, Dooley. Thank you.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Seeing Flint in the day was so vastly different than seeing him in the dark that Thomas could scarcely recognise him. Bright pink coral and delicate gold chains held the man’s hair back from his face, intertwined with strands of dark seaweed to form braids that tumbled haphazardly around his ears and the back of his neck. His skin was pale and dotted with freckles that drew Thomas’ eye to the sharp point of his nose, the pretty bow of his lips and the cut of his cheekbones. Thomas was, in fact, instantly attracted to him.

“Your wife…” Flint began, turning his head ever so slightly towards Thomas, “is a powerful woman. I didn’t know there were still witches with power enough to summon me from the sea.”

Thomas blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Flint turned fully and levelled Thomas with a stare that made his stomach flip. And his  _ eyes _ \- they were a blisteringly cold green. “Do you even know who you’re speaking to?  _ Truly? _ ”

“I know you are a man who may be related to the folktale they speak of in Cornwall, though I am not sure you are more than that,” he said softly. “Beyond that, I don’t pretend to know.”

A snort of laughter. Flint flicked his eyes down and then up again, the sharp coldness of them had melted slightly. Thomas fell slightly into that glance, his body listing like the ship itself. “Thomas Hamilton, you are in the presence of what you may call a god. I am of the sea, yes, but I  _ am _ the sea. I bring storms to the northern shores of Britain and Iceland, hurricanes to the Bahamas. I wander the doldrums of the Sargasso and take sailor’s lives for my own. The damned and lost are my crew, and I am their damned and lost Captain.”

Thomas’ breath stuck in his chest as Flint spoke. He felt water touch his bare feet and looked down to see rivulets of water reaching out to curl about his toes and flow over the tops of his feet. It was cold to the point of pain.

“Just as bread and wine form the body and blood of Jesus, salt water and sand form mine.”

It took him several moments to find words to say. It took him many of those moments to draw his mind from within itself. His mouth was dry and his natural tendency to want to know began to creep forward again. “Then I’m lucky it was you who found me.”

Flint laughed a deep and beautiful laugh that crashed into Thomas’ heart like waves against cliffs. “Lucky is one way to describe it. But we don’t have time for many pleasantries. I was summoned to take revenge on the man who took you from your wife.”

“My father?” Thomas gasped and recoiled backwards. His reaction must have shocked Flint, as the man winced slightly. “Why? Can I not just go home and not see that man again?” His voice sounded high and breathy to his own ears, the voice of desperate man.

“What did he  _ do _ to you?” Flint asked, his voice low and curious.

Thomas grit his teeth and clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. “My father had me institutionalised for defying him, for having the gaul to believe in a person’s ability to be good over being powerful. And,” he took a deep breath, the old fear and shame bubbling in his throat despite his best efforts to demolish them over time, “for spitting in the face of God by laying with men.”

Something flitted across Flint’s face that made Thomas’ stomach flutter. It was dark, it was cold, but it was not aimed at him. “Why were you on the ship that was taking you across my sea?”

“To be imprisoned on a plantation in Spanish Florida. Sugarcane, I believe the place produces. I was to be left there and forgotten by the world.”

In the distance he heard thunder and saw clouds begin to form on the horizon at such speed it could not be natural. The ship began to rock. Silence fell over the deck as men paused in their work. 

“He dies.”

Thomas blinked. “What?”

Flint turned away and began barking orders to the men going about their daily duties on deck. Thomas watched with a mixture of horror and excitement as Flint’s fury began to manifest around them in a storm that shook the mast.

“Go to my cabin, Mr. Hamilton, I will join you later to discuss this matter further.”

“But I-”

“  _ Go _ ;” Flint hissed, turning with a snarl twisting his lips that made his pretty face turn monstrous. Thomas went.


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda sends a gift, and Flint plans how to complete his task.

Miranda woke with the taste of salt on her tongue and a headache that pounded against her skull with every beat of her heart. She rolled over in the bed she had once shared with her husband and pulled the sheets over her head. The dream she'd had played over and over behind her closed eyes and she wanted to scream. 

It was night in her dream, the moon high overhead as Thomas was dragged from his study and taken away. His father, the ugly  _ demon _ of a man, had sneered at her as he passed and she had lunged forward to tear his throat out with her teeth. 

She was not repulsed by the blood or the visceral feeling of his flesh yielding to the force of her teeth. Her stomach didn’t turn at the taste of copper. On the contrary; she was ashamed she hadn't had the courage to do so when the event had happened, she was ashamed she hadn’t taken a poker from the fire and driven the beast from their home and branded him. Her dreams were filled with Thomas being taken away, being tortured and beaten, being alone... Thomas was terrible at being alone. It was part of why they had married and shared a bed despite not being traditional in the upholding of their vows. The terrible loneliness of his childhood was at fault, Miranda thought. His mother had died when he was young and his brother had left as soon as he was of age. Miranda did her best to stay by his side when their more isolated lifestyle became difficult for him to withstand. 

A knock on the door shocked her into opening her eyes and she realised it was still dark outside. As she wrapped herself in a shawl she noticed the very beginning of dawn just peaking over the horizon far out to sea. When she opened the door she nearly screamed. 

"Miranda Hamilton," Captain Flint said lowly as he bowed his head in a strangely gentlemanly gesture. 

She pulled the shawl tighter about her shoulders. Her skin felt tight, as though all the moisture had been drawn from her simply by standing near the spectre of death before her. "What are you doing here? Have you done what I asked?" Her voice sounded shrill to her own ears. 

Captain Flint shook his head once and set his lantern down. It was unlit. His sword, she noted, was clean of blood. "I have not completed my task yet, no. But, I have found your husband."

Miranda's breath stopped in her chest. She gasped, hand clasped to her mouth, and felt the tears in her eyes spill down her cheeks. "Thomas," she whispered, happiness bursting through her veins and threatening to make her faint. As she toppled to the side, a strong arm caught her and kept her upright. Captain Flint set her right, his hands firm and cold where they touched her. The tightness in her skin receded. 

"He has told me of his treatment at the hands of his father. He wants to come home."

"Then where is he?" She asked in a hiss. “Where is my  _ husband? _ ”

"I can't bring him ashore, my ship is too far away. I'll return him as soon as my task is done;" he took his hands from her shoulders and straightened his spine. The sheer discipline in that posture made her think of the dockyards in London, how the Navy men would stand and salute their betters. Flint’s stern features were hard but she saw the strange understanding in his eyes. "You have my word."

Miranda fixed him with her gaze. "Then when you see my husband, give him this."

She leaned forward and ignored the cold damp of the spectre's coat and shirt, pressed herself to his front and kissed him. His mouth didn't move, he didn't lean into her or react in any way. The impassive reaction jarred her, but she knew her husband - he would be intrigued by this man, would want to pick him apart and, if she was right, would be attracted to him. Her instinct on that account had never failed her before. Let him find some happiness at sea, at least, she thought with a touch of bitterness. There was so little happiness in the world -  _ let him be tempted, and let him  _ **_tempt_ ** _.  _

Captain Flint waited for her to pull away before nodding his head and picking his lantern back up. She didn't watch him disappear into the sea. She went inside, curled up in her bed, and wept. 

\---   --- ---   --- --- ---   --- --- ---

Thomas spent the early morning on deck gazing out at the ocean. The bright blue of the water met the grey-blue of the overcast sky and Thomas fought the urge to fling himself into the sea just to feel the cold against his skin. But it was a passing fancy. Ice baths had been all too common in Bethlam and the idea of  _ cold  _ terrified him to his core. 

The sailors in the rigging shouted to one another, sang parts of songs but never finished them, and Thomas let the easy and constant routine of the actions soothe his nerves. At least he wasn't alone, after all. 

A cough behind him drew his attention from the sights before him and sounds around him. 

"Mr Hamilton?" Billy asked gently, the large shape of him completely at odds with his soft voice. It made Thomas smile. Miranda would have eaten this man alive in another life - perhaps she might yet, he wondered absently.

"Yes, Mr Bones," he responded.

Billy frowned ever so slightly and shuffled on his feet. "The Captain's in his cabin, says he wants to talk to you. I'd go pretty quickly if I were you, he isn't a man who likes waiting."

Thomas bristled and squared his shoulders. He lingered on deck under Billy's scrutiny for a few moments longer than necessary just out of stubbornness. Then, with calculatedly relaxed strides, he made his way to the captain's cabin towards the rear of the ship. But as he got to the door he hesitated out of nervousness. The storm Flint had summoned with just a thought the day before had been chilling. That Flint commanded such power was awe-inspiring as well as slightly terrifying - his own stubborn nature would not fare well under the pressure of such a dangerous and reckless power. 

Part of him wanted to learn more, to understand and rationalise, and part of him wanted to return back to the deck and keep his distance. 

But there was another part of him, one Miranda had known about since their first days of courting. That part wanted to touch and taste and bask in the divine glory of such power. Thomas had known men in London who wielded power in such a manner that made others weak at the knees, he had been privy to their power on more than one occasion. He didn't know which part of him would succeed over the others, and that was what frightened him. 

After a moment of hesitation and thought he knocked on the door to the cabin and stepped in before he could lose his nerve. 

Flint was sat at his desk and rose when Thomas came in. He was wearing something unusual - a robe, turquoise in colour and the fabric almost sheer, over a loose white shirt and black breeches that cut off at the knee. The robe flowed out from his body, making him seem royal in a way Thomas had only seen in paintings. His hair was somehow longer and tumbled in loose curls over his right shoulder in a fiery wave decorated with strings of pearls and golden shells. Golden chains dangled from his ears, the light glancing off of them and reminding Thomas of stars that shimmered on clear nights. Thomas had to bite his lip to stop from gasping at the sight. 

"I hope you slept well," Flint said after a moment. A tenderness filled the man’s voice, one Thomas had not heard so far since meeting him. Thomas watched him walk around the desk and found himself watching the delicate way Flint's bare feet padded across the wooden floor. His fingers, long and adorned with rings of gold and silver and onyx, passed lightly over the surface of the desk. "Thank you for coming. I have a message for you, from your wife."

He looked up suddenly. "Miranda? Is she alright?" 

Flint drew closer and Thomas was alarmed by the uncertainty on the man's face. "She asked me to give you something," he said in a low voice. 

Thomas watched in shock and restrained delight as Flint tilted his chin up and kissed him. 

It was possibly the worst kiss he had ever been a part of, but his skin prickled and heat suffused through him as Flint's lips pressed against his in spite of that. Flint's body pressed ever so lightly against his own and Thomas reflexively put an arm around him and steered the kiss towards something more... refined. Their lips moved gently together, and Thomas forgot himself for a blissful time. He felt Flint stiffen against him and inhale sharply through his nose before relaxing. The kiss became languid, less a press of lips and more a slow dance that made the warmth in Thomas' body bloom and settle low in his stomach. 

A small moan that almost sounded like pain made Thomas pull back. He sucked in a lungful of air and blinked wildly, the colours of the room dancing before his eyes. 

Flint retreated back to the desk though did not go behind it. His cheeks were not pink but the green of his eyes had darkened and the waves of his hair had tightened almost to ringlets. Thomas wanted to touch them, to run his fingers through the sudden curls, to feel if they were coarsened by seasalt or soft as silk.

"This- this wasn't why I brought you in here," Flint said after a few moments. He composed himself and the curl of his hair loosened before Thomas' eyes. He heard the tinkle of gold against pearls, saw the light play over the golded adornments. "The beast of a man who claims to be your father - I need to know where he might be. An exact location is not important, just tell me generally where he may be and I will find him."

Thomas sobered instantly. "And you'll kill him."

"Yes." No hesitation, no remorse, only a businesslike surety. It chilled and excited Thomas to no end. A year ago he would have balked at his own reaction, but now… Not he had seen the true face of his own kin and found it wanting.

He breathed in deeply and walked to the map stretched out on the desk. When Flint moved to stand near him, he resisted the urge to lean into his side. Instead, he pointed to the map at where his father would most likely be. It was close to the shore of the Americas where Thomas had been expected to land. Given the time that had passed and what he knew of his father’s plans, it seemed logical he would already be on his way to secure Thomas’ confinement. Flint hummed under his breath and tapped his chin. The light caught the gold of his rings and drew Thomas' eyes. 

"We'll set sail at dusk. It shouldn't take long if we catch the right wind..." He stroked his beard with long fingers and nodded to himself. "I don't see much difficulty arising from the location, though if Nassau catches sight of us we may find ourselves with visitors." 

"Visitors?" Thomas asked, the name Nassau catching in his mind. He had almost been a part of New Providence Island's history before his father had snapped. The Admiralty were trying to secure the island and reshape the colony there into something more palatable to English tastes. 

Flint nodded once and quirked his lips. "Pirates, Mr Hamilton. I have many of their number on my crew and have had rather... tempestuous dealings with them for many years."

Thomas wanted to ask more, but Flint cut him off. "But we have hours before dusk. I'll talk to the crew, see what preparations need to be done," he turned to the bookcase at the edge of the cabin and ran a hand over the spines of the books. Thomas felt his throat tighten at the sight of them. How long had it been since he'd read a book? He couldn't truly remember. The longing on his face must have been more obvious than it felt, as Flint turned to him with a gentle gaze and motioned to the bookshelf with a jerk of his head. "Help yourself to these; I don't have much time for reading but if you have any passion for books I would be happy to indulge it. And..."

"And?" Thomas asked, still watching the books and trying to figure out how many he could read in the short time he would have on the Walrus. Descartes, poetry, Catullus, Plato, Homer… He spied a familiar cover and suppressed a gasp at the sight of  _ Don Quioxte  _ on the far left. Miranda would have plucked it up immediately and looked at him with that wry smile of hers, raising one brow to mock him in a loving and knowing manner.

"If you wish to join me for dinner, here in my cabin, I would gladly receive you. I admit my social skills are lacking, I don't often have company," Flint said with a small smile. 

Thomas felt something sharp in his chest. His palms had started to sweat and his heart had begun to pound. The old familiar sting of  _ affection  _ bruised his heart. "I- yes, I'd like that."

Flint's smile widened. He looked happy even as he seemed unsure, and Thomas felt the sharp thing in his chest sink further in. 


	5. Four

There was a deep loneliness in the existence of James Flint. Fathomless depths where the light wouldn’t reach were the home where his heart slept. Once he had been lit by the fires of the old gods and their worshipers, but those times had long since passed.

Now there was only darkness stained red.

Death and storms were his trade, and blood was his payment. He took pride in his work, killed only the worthless and did so as cruelly as they acted to one another. Some died screaming and begging for reprieve, some died with a whisper of thanks. There had been none who died silently.

Then, in the darkness of night and amidst the stench of despair, he had made a bargain with a sea witch - her blood for revenge. He had been led to a path he had previously thought lost to him.

He had found a light.

The kiss still lingered on his lips hours later. He felt a tingling warmth on his mouth, a drumbeat in his chest that had until then been silent. As dusk fell he used his physical form for something other than talk and bargains. He used it to  _ feel _ . Flint touched his lips with one cold, calloused fingertip. He pressed, felt the line of his teeth through the flesh, felt again the whisper of Thomas’ lips. 

A sensation of pulling thrummed in his head as his form’s hair curled again, the shiver of warmth moving down his skin in flashes. The cold of his skin became simply  _ cool _ as the blue of Thomas’ eyes filled his thoughts. He felt almost helpless, tugged as though in a riptide; it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The witch, Miranda, had called it a gift - Flint thought the word lacking in depth for what it had felt like.

The cook, kept at his station for the first months of his sentence, had been instructed to make something simple and edible. It waited on the desk-come-table as the sun sank lower on the horizon. James focused on the salvaged silverware and felt his hair relax, felt his skin cool again and return to its mid-Atlantic temperature. The world stayed blessedly quiet and tinted blue. No voices whispered to him of needs he could not fill as they may have done once, no colour of green or yellow seeped into his vision, sure signs of his own demise. It was a sweet relief. 

He couldn’t remember his ‘birth’ in detail, couldn’t remember how he had come to be… all he remembered was the need to sail, to swim and to be free. And later, the need to kill.

Flint looked at the food on the table though it held little interest to him, and waited in quiet agony for his company for the evening to arrive.

A knock at the cabin door made the faint drumbeat in his chest thump louder. He remembered the kiss again and felt himself heat from within. How did humans suffer this madness? How did they not succumb to their bodies and simply love one another for all eternity? It was unfathomable to him. The resurgence of that pounding in his chest and the feeling of warmth under his skin was almost enough to drive him to distraction.

“Enter,” he said in a rasping voice, the tugging of his hair as it tightened into curls. Would Thomas notice? He must, it was so obvious after all. Would he  _ care? _ James knew so little about the man it was hard to tell. 

Even so, as Thomas came in and smiled at him, a smile as bright and wide as the sky, James felt all the tension in his form slip away. The tight curls loosened, the coral of his crown lengthened to caress the tips of his ears and James felt a cool drop of water run down the back of his neck. The blue of the world became clear, became the colour of Thomas’ eyes. The damned drumming in his chest went off rhythm then settled into a low and distant sound, like rain on a wooden barrel.

“My apologies, Captain,” Thomas said with a slight bow, “I didn’t mean to keep you. Mr Bones was showing me some of the gunnery and I was distracted.”

Flint licked his lips, tasted the salt and inclined his head. “It’s alright. The Walrus is not a large ship, no Man of War, but she is beautiful nonetheless.”

At that, Thomas smiled softly and stepped closer. He ran his fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf. “There are many beautiful things on your ship, Captain;” he looked up, lips parted, his gaze set on Flint. Flint’s skin flushed. 

They sat to eat, shared cold cuts of salted meat and crackers, slices of fruit Thomas had clearly never tasted before if his sounds of delight were anything to go by. James wanted to reach out and taste the sweetness of the fruit on his fingers and lips, to give Miranda’s gift to him again and again until satisfaction was at last within reach- But he held back.

Thomas watched him as he explained the charts open by the unused cot, his eyes bright and inquisitive. He asked questions about sailing, about the sea and how to navigate it, about everything but Flint’s nature. He was not the first mortal to evade the subject, far from it; but he was the first mortal Flint wanted to talk to, to  _ answer _ to. In his mind, he tried to conjure ways to steer the conversation to his nature but found none. How did one introduce such a topic? 

Silence filled the cabin as the conversation wound down naturally. James unconsciously twirled one lock of hair around his finger, watching as the light from the sun reaching the horizon glinted against his rings. It highlighted the red in his hair, made him think of fire and lights again. The rain drops in his chest grew louder.

“You said-” Thomas began, clearing his throat and taking a sip of sickly sweet wine. “Earlier, on deck, you said that you were… a  _ god _ . You said you  _ are _ the sea.”

Flint looked up quickly and caught the flicker of fear in Thomas’ eyes. His hair must have appeared as a halo of fire, rising as his nature was called upon to be witnessed.  _ At last _ , the depths of him cried,  _ at last. To be  _ **_seen._ ** He stood and peeled the robe from his shoulders as droplets of water formed on his skin.

Thomas’ eyes widened, his mouth dropping open as he saw what the clothing had hidden. A tattoo, black and blue ink in swirls and dots that formed an octopus. A  _ kraken _ . It swam across the freckled skin of his back, his sides, over his shoulders and down into the divot of his spine. The seven sprawling tentacles reached forward to curl around his belly button and up to his chest. The mark had gained scars over the years, some from battles and some from his own reckless nature. He lifted his arms and turned slightly to show the design in full.

“In the northern seas, near Greenland and the old Viking lands, sailors tell of a creature so twisted and cruel they named it kraken. That creature pulled ships asunder and takes lives uncounted. Homer wrote of  _ Charbydis _ , the whirlpool that took ships to the depths. In the Bible, there is the  _ Leviathan… _ ” He rolled his shoulders, heard the crack of his neck and the shifting of his bones as the shape of his body lengthened, became more like the form he was used to - sharp fingers, pointed collarbones and fang like teeth, eyes that resembled that of a shark more than a man. His sight focused in on the man sat at his table. He smelled the clean sweat, the salt water that clung to every person aboard. “I am those things. The sea was here long before mankind. It will be here long after. All men fear what lies beneath and I take that fear, release it on men who are deserving. Then I come back to my ship and rest before another calls for my aid.”

Thomas was watching him with a mixture of horror and reverence. “Magnificent.”

The cold terror in his bones warmed. He felt his hair, formed of red coral and seaweed in his  _ beastly _ form, return to it’s more human texture. The fixation of his senses lessened, became soft as his muscles relaxed in shock. “Magnificent?”

“I wished for something like that to come for me when I was… when I was in Bethlam. Some monster to rip the walls apart, to take me into sweet oblivion and destroy what had hurt me so,” Thomas whispered, moving around the desk to reach out and touch. His fingers were almost  _ hot _ where they touched the inky lines of Flint’s tattoo. “I would dream every night of something,  _ someone _ , saving me from that hell. And here you are. My very own seraph.”

James leaned into the hand touching him, let the palm lay flat against his chest over where his heart would have been if he had one. Then, beneath his ribcage, he felt the drumming again. It started slow and off-beat. But, as Thomas drew closer, as his hand smoothed up and over the curve of his shoulder, it settled into a steady rhythm. 

When Thomas kissed his lips the beat became a storm. Fire flashed behind his eyes, his hair tightened and turned to flaming red coral, the usual adornments fell away and clattered against the floor as he melted into the embrace of the man kissing him. He felt naked, vulnerable in a way he had never felt before as Thomas’ breath ghosted over his skin. Flint’s fingers, once again claws, traced lightly over the cloth-covered chest pressed against him. The kiss was slow and soft and all the things he was not but he  _ ached- _

_ Man of shadow and blood, vengeance and storm, I call on you with an offering of blood. _

He broke away with a hiss, his tongue catching on his teeth and saltwater filling his mouth. The flush of Thomas’ cheeks called to him and tugged at the drummer pounding in his chest.

Thomas watched him with lidded eyes. “What is it?”

Flint growled low in his throat, the sound of tectonic plates grinding, and shook his shoulders, formed the heavy leather coat and dripping cutlass with a thought. “I’m summoned. Stay here, read, sleep, eat- just stay in here.”

He left the room and for the first time in centuries felt his hands shake. The drumbeat in his chest continued, strong and steady. 


	6. Five

As he stood alone in the cabin, Thomas wondered if the kiss had been too much. Had Flint left out of necessity or had he fled in fear? His stomach twisted at the idea, both saddened that he would make Flint feel that way and excitement that he  _ could _ make Flint feel that way. The idea of being able to cause fear, something Thomas had been stripped of early in life, was enticing. To have some semblance of power was intoxicating, in it’s own way.

Bile rose in his throat after the thought. Images of men, women, children, seeing him and cowering away in fear as they passed him in the asylum haunted him. He shrugged the memories away with a physical jerk of his shoulders. Wine took away the taste of stale bread and old water.

He moved to the bookcase again and read the spines one by one.

An ice-like bolt of emotion pierced him, an eerily familiar red leather book screaming at him from the shelf, almost hidden away in the corner.  _ Marcus Aurelius _ . How had he not seen it earlier? He picked it out carefully and slumped in the nearest chair, opening the pages carefully to peer at the words he knew almost by heart.

Another memory, much more pleasant but just as painful as Bethlam, filled his mind. Miranda, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, the pale pink of her dress shimmering in the candlelight as they read together after dinner… He missed her with a sudden pang of longing. Though they had rarely known each other carnally he loved her deeply, deeper than he had loved any other person in his life. Most of all, most selfishly, he missed having someone to touch - not even sex, he would happily forgo sex in place of a companion to love and talk to. He missed the day-to-day interactions; touching her hand, kissing her cheek and walking arm in arm along streets of grey, her hands brushing over his shoulders to smooth out a stray wrinkle of clothing...

As tears fell from his eyes Thomas prayed that he would see his wife again.

\---

Hours passed, the sun was far below the horizon and the moon was hanging high in the night sky. Thomas had nodded off for a while and his neck was sore from where it had been unnaturally bent. With creaking bones, he stood and stretched, let the short sleep run off of him like water. His first thought was  _ where _ followed by darting glances to the door and cabin window.

It took a minute for him to remember he was on the Walrus, that he was safe. Though he wasn’t entirely sure how much safety there was to be found at sea on a ship of men and monsters. No harm had come to him yet, and none of the crew had said more than a few words to him and all of them kind, but Thomas had lost the notion of what it was to  _ trust _ . 

A knock on the door signalled the entry of a man, short and stout in stature, his balding head complimented by an impressive moustache. He smiled, wide and genuine, and Thomas immediately felt a liking for the man. “Ah, Mr Hamilton. I am Mr Gates, quartermaster of the Walrus and charged with your health while our illustrious captain is away. I’ve brought you something less potent to drink, if you’re thirsty. Not much fresh water on a ship like this but we make do.”

Thomas took the offered jug and went without the mug that came with it. He lifted it to his lips and drank greedily, suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. Water dropped from the corners of his lips and a guttural sound came from his chest. He gasped his thanks. Mr Gates shrugged and set the jug on the table.

“I won’t insult James by asking if he’s been treating you well. He’s a lot of damned things, but being cruel to the needy isn’t in his nature.”

Thomas peered around the room, wondering about the man who usually occupied it with a sudden feverish intensity. “What can you tell me about him?” He asked.

Mr Gates stroked his chin and laughed. “A lot of things! I’ve been on this ship nearly twenty years now - fifteen of those have been voluntarily served. He’s a good man. Idealistic, poetic, fucking  _ terrifying _ when his blood is up-“ Gates stopped and sat beside Thomas on the floor. “But he is what he is; a killer. I warn everyone who boards not to underestimate him, so don’t make that mistake.”

Thomas swallowed thickly and nodded. “I shan’t.”

“Good. Now how about we take a walk?” He said, slapping his thighs and standing.

“Flint told me I should stay here.”

“Did he now?” Gates raised an eyebrow and laughed under his breath. It brought a smile to Thomas’ face. “Well, he’ll just have to come looking for you when he gets back.”

Mr Gates took him up on deck, the world illuminated by the moon and it took Thomas’ breath away. The sails were billowing with the wind, the sound of the waves beating against the hull of the ship breaking the eerie silence. The crew manning the rigging and keeping the night watch paid them little mind, and Thomas picked out the faces of the few he recognised.

Billy was the only one to turn and nod at them. He lifted a hand in greeting and hefted rope over his shoulder in an impressive display. 

“We’ll have to take some of Billy’s old shirts for you, I suppose. Can’t have you wearing the same thing every day, not a man of your reputation,” Gates said after a moment, watching as Billy went behind them and below deck.

“Of my reputation?”

“Aye - high born, no doubt of good noble stock. You’ve the name and posture of a lord, if I might say so.”

Thomas frowned. “You may- but any titles I may or may not have had were stripped away when they locked me up.”

Gates made a disgusted sound and took Thomas by the elbow. “Civilisation, indeed… Here, we’ll get you a shirt. Billy can’t wear them now, might as well get some use out of them. There’s no titles on this ship, not beyond your position I mean. Do you want to be known as a lord?”

“No,” Thomas said instantly, “I don’t. I don’t think I can even stand my own name some days. Not after what it got me.”

They went down to the main bunks, through to the longest and broadest of the hammocks and the large chest kept below it. Carved into the lid were the letters  _ W. M _ . No doubt Billy’s true name. Inside were a collection of large shirts and breeches, not quite big enough to fit the man’s frame as it was now, Thomas thought, but enough to fit Thomas. When Gates presented him with one, he shrugged off the dirty tattered shirt on his shoulders and put the new one on.

The sleeves came to just above his wrists, the chest was far too loose, but it was clean. It smelled of the sea and biscuits.

“Not bad!” Gates said happily. His good humour was infectious.

They spent the next few hours talking about Gates’ past as a merchant, how he had sailed between England and India on many occasions. He described the spices and colour of the Indian food, how they had a festival dedicated to light and one to colour, how the thousands of gods could all be found on the streets. Thomas lost himself in the description of the pyres and temples, of monkeys and elephants and tigers. He imagined a snake curling up his leg and biting at his thigh, killing him but taking him into a new life.

In return he told Gates of his home in London. He told Gates of Miranda and her silk dresses, the lovers she took and showed off to Thomas at dinner (whether they knew it or not, she was gauging whether or not they were decent enough by Thomas’ reaction). He described the sweet cakes of his childhood and how he missed them.

By the time the sun came up he was smiling, happy for the first time in months, and felt comfortable enough to mention his incarceration. When he mentioned the ice baths and blood letting, Gates made a disgusted sound.

“Anyone who thinks bleeding a man will make him better doesn’t know anything about the body.”

They wandered back up onto the main deck just after the first bell rang for morning watch. Thomas watched men scurry up the ropes to check the sails and marvelled at their dexterousness. How incredible, to see those feet grip rope like fingers, to see men scatter like spiders who’s hiding place has been revealed…

Waves began to crash to the right. Storm clouds gathered and rain began to fall heavily onto the ship. Thomas glanced about wildly as the men began to shout and secure things. Gates stood still beside him and put a hand on his elbow.

“Hard to starboard!” A voice called, harsh and cruel. A wave crested over the port side of the ship and Thomas gasped as Flint came with it, riding the wave as though it were a hand lifting him from the ocean. His hair was long and wild, flying about his head as it would underwater, the crown on his head was pale and sharp. It seemed as though ice had formed there almost like diamonds. Thomas saw the claws on Flint’s hands and felt a shiver of something burn hot inside him.

Flint called orders to set their course, kicking a stray barrel aside as though it weighed nothing. The fury in his voice, the terrifying cruelty in his features, was a sight to behold. Thomas was  _ enraptured _ .

When Flint saw him, the frantic swirling of his hair lessened. The wind died down, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

“ _ Thomas _ ,” he whispered. “I thought you were inside- I apologise. You need not witness this.”

Thomas shook his head and raked his eyes over the form of the captain before him. He was beautiful in his anger. The red of his hair, the green of his eyes, the dark of his black coat - every colour was intensified. The snaking tendrils of the tattoo curled up to his cheeks and wrapped about his neck like a noose;  they seemed to move before Thomas’ eyes.

“I want to see,” he said softly, stepping forward from besides Gates. “Where are we going?”

Flint looked at his quartermaster and nodded once. Gates cleared his throat. “Seems we have a lead. Are we off hunting, captain?”

Flint nodded again before jerking his head to the side. Thomas assumed it was to  _ him _ , as Gates started shouting more orders and addressing the men. He followed Flint into the captain’s cabin and shivered against the cold.

The captain shrugged off the heavy leather coat and let out a long heavy breath. “A god’s work is never done,” he said under his breath. His shirt, black and just a little too large for his lithe frame, clung to his body and revealed the corded musculature beneath. Thomas’ throat clicked as he swallowed.

When Flint turned around he eyed Thomas up and down. “Who’s shirt is that?”

Thomas looked down at himself and laughed. “Billy’s, I believe. Though it’s wet through now…”

Something hot flashed behind Flint’s eyes. He strode forward and took the hem of the shirt between two long fingers and his thumb, rubbed the fabric and snarled. It was animalistic, almost possessive in nature. “I’ll get something more proper for you.”

He rummaged in a large sea chest, ornate and far older than the one Thomas had seen under Billy Bones’ hammock. When Flint turned around he held a dark maroon shirt in his hands, the sleeves long and wide, and held it out. “Here,” he said, voice calm and level, “this will be dry and warm.”

Thomas shrugged the wet fabric off and felt Flint watching him, felt it like a touch. He imagined the feel of those long, claw like fingers and shivered. What would it be like? Would Captain Flint touch him softly, explore his skin like one of the maps on his desk? Or would he grip and take as though Thomas were a captured ship to plunder? The prospect of touch,  _ any  _ touch, was enough to make a flush rise to Thomas’ cheeks.

He wanted either, he wanted  _ both _ .

“We’re to go a little further North than our previous estimates. Your father, it seems, has gone to New York for some reason. We will intercept his ship between there and North Carolina, and my task will be done.”

“You’ll kill him, you mean,” Thomas said.

James seemed to snarl then, his teeth sharp and white against the pink of his lips as the gruesome smile split his mouth. “Yes.”

Thomas thought of the kiss again, thought of how Flint had melted into him. How different he was when being touched to this…  _ fury _ he displayed when talking of his task. Thomas found he was not perturbed by this. If anything, it was even more attractive. In the last year and a half he had found little opportunity to feel true anger. The cold and laudanum induced hazes had stripped him of any true emotion but apathy.

He wanted that passion back. He wanted to  _ feel _ again, to let the tight grip of control fall from his emotions and to be free to cry out and scream when he pleased.

When Flint came close to him, it was as though he was stood next to a storm. His hair stood on end, the fluttering in his chest became almost unbearable. He listed towards James and felt his lips part. He wanted to- He  _ needed _ to-

Flint touched his lips with one finger, his eyes dancing over the shape of Thomas’ face and it was maddening how much his body craved that touch. The finger dipped between his lips and he could hardly stop himself from closing them, sucking lightly at the digit. Flint gasped, his hair tightening to curl around his ears and his eyes darkened almost to blackness.

“Thomas-” he whispered, his voice rasping and cracking. There was a colour rising on his cheeks, not pink but blue. It looked shimmery, almost like one of Miranda’s blue satin dresses. 

He reached out and put a hand on Flint’s hip, squeezed, and drew Flint closer. The want in his belly began to rage out of control and he could see the same happening on Flint’s face.

“Kiss me,” he whispered.

Flint did.


	7. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and James finally pass that line.
> 
> Miranda meets someone entirely unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAaaahhh it's been ages but here! Have a chapter. Short and entirely smut, so hopefully that makes up for the delay. 
> 
> The language James speaks (which I only put one word for) is Akkadian or Sumerian and the word itself is one used for orgasm/ejaculation. That should give you an idea for James' origins.  
> (he's old as Balls y'all)
> 
> ANYWAY ENJOY.
> 
> EDIT - I've added another scene which will be linked up again later!

This kiss was nothing like the first. It was hard, almost to the point of bruising, and he felt Flint’s hands on him in a rush of excitement. He moaned, low and deep in his chest, as Flint’s claw-like fingers dragged down the length of his back in long tingling scrapes.

“Captain, please -”

“James,” the sea god whispered, “let me be James to you.”

He drew back to look into James’ eyes and gasped at the cold need he found there, eyes that were as dark as the very deepest ocean and just as enticing. The bright auburn of his hair had become almost alive and shining, gold light coming from somewhere within the curls that tightened and lengthened before his very eyes. 

He rushed to take the coat and shirt from James’ back, whispering his name over and over in a rush of air from his lips. “James,” he groaned, watching as the tattoo on his back looped over his shoulders, seeming to reach for Thomas in desperate flicks of the long tendrils. He put his mouth to the Captain’s shoulder, licked and tasted the black ink and found it tasted of salt and something dark, something he imagined ink would taste like. He moaned and pressed the lengths of their bodies together, their hips slotting together and James was hard against him. A short, fat length straining against the tight breeches on his legs.

“ _ Have _ me,” James groaned in a rush of words, “Thomas, please have me.”

And Thomas did.

They stripped the remaining clothes from their bodies and Thomas could do nothing but worship the man in front of him. Long legs, firm and thick thighs, the lithe muscles and the freckles that covered his skin in constellations reflecting those in the sky perfectly. Thomas recognised Ursa Major, Capricorn, Andromeda and Gemini in one passing glance as he reached for James’ cock and stroked it.

James’ skin was cool, even here, and the newness of the sensation made Thomas feel giddy. He knelt, took the cock in his mouth and moaned around the girth of it as it filled his mouth. Long fingers tangled in his hair and Thomas looked up to see James’ blue blush spreading down his chest in an almost literal wave of shimmering colour. He saw the tattoo spread over his lover’s hips and reach for his lips as they moved over the length of James’ cock, as he sucked and bobbed to make guttural sounds drop from James’ lips.

Some language, old and foreign to Thomas’ ears, came from James as his hips began to thrust. He fucked Thomas’ mouth in small, hitched thrusts and Thomas reached behind him, pressed a finger against his hole and moaned.

James was slick, Thomas’ finger slipped in easily and the sound that came from James’ mouth was more akin to a roar than a moan. He gripped Thomas’ hair tighter and stilled, cock deep in Thomas’ throat and pulsing as he threatened to spill.

Thomas drew back and kissed the blue-tinted head, pressed a second finger in and began to thrust, to scissor as he opened James up.

“Please,” James whispered, his voice sounding like waves crashing against cliffs as he dragged Thomas to his feet. “Please, please .”

They fell onto the small cot-like bed gracelessly and James quickly climbed into Thomas’ lap. He began to grind his hips, sliding the length of Thomas’ cock teasingly over his hole until Thomas was almost beside himself with lust. He  _ needed _ James. After months and years without a lover, without a man to touch and kiss, he was desperate in a way he could not remember being before.

He kissed James again with clumsy, lust blind movements. A sound was near-punched from him as James sank down over his cock in one swift movement, a howl of some unnameable emotion spilling from the sea god’s mouth as he threw his head back. And it was  _ cold _ inside him, but not unpleasant in any way. Thomas thought he could spend eternity gripped by that coldness.

He felt  _ whole _ as he wrapped his arms around James’ cool torso and pressed his face to the man’s neck. He breathed in the salt of his skin, the scent of seaweed tickling his nose as the tight curls of James’ hair loosened slightly. The coral crown on his head became a garland of anemones and seagrass before Thomas’ eyes, full of colour. He curled his fingers around the sharp jut of James’ hip and felt that the previously soft skin had become coarse and almost scale-like beneath his fingers.

As James began to move, lifting and lowering his hips in slow motions, Thomas explored the new tastes and textures of James’ skin. He watched the waves of blush as they roamed over James’ chest, followed the crest of those waves with his eyes, and pressed his hands to the firm muscle of James’ chest. The tattoo unfurled and reached for him, the ink somehow passing from James on to Thomas and curling around his fingers. It was cold, and firm, and Thomas’ chest pounded with longing to be surrounded by that firm hold.

James’s hips moved faster. Thomas thrust up, his body aware in a sudden rush that it was a part of this. His cock throbbed in the tight grip of James’ body as his baser instincts kicked in.

“ _ Thomas! _ ” James gasped, reaching for his face and kissing him with a fierce intensity that bordered on possession.

Thomas kissed back, an open-mouthed kiss full of gasping breath and tongues and teeth nipping almost painfully. The tight grip of James’ arms was joined by those inky tendrils moving up his arms, coldly comforting as they held him against James’ chest, the man’s cock caught between them.

“Fuck,” Thomas hissed as James’ clawed fingers drew blood on his shoulders. The sharp sensation made his head swim. Was he drunk? He felt drunk, but had tasted no alcohol, had only drunk the lust coming from James’ own body. “James, you- you're beautiful, don’t stop moving, love.”

James clung to him and gasped, more of that old language coming from his lips. The only word Thomas recognised was his own name.

It could only have lasted minutes, but Thomas felt as though a year had passed as James held him. He gripped James’ hips and helped lift him, slammed his hips up to fuck him with as much energy as he could muster in his abused bones. The shout that came from James' lips as he came, the shine of his gold hair floating weightlessly in a halo around his head, the blue of his cheeks- Thomas would remember it for eternity.

Sharp teeth grazed over the column of his throat and that unearthly voice whispered “ _ rakabu _ ” in his ear.  He came inside James with his own cry, eyes fluttering shut as his orgasm rushed over him like a riptide.

As their breathing lengthened and calmed, James lay them down with Thomas still seated inside him. They lay in silence, only the sound of the ship creaking to disturb them.

Thomas stroked the length of his lover’s back and shivered as the tight grip of the tattoo slipped away inch by inch.

“Is it always like that?” James asked, breaking the quiet.

Thomas’ heart pounded in his chest. “ _ What _ ? Are you-  _ God _ did I hurt you?” He asked, rushing to see if James was alright. James made a strangled sound as Thomas’ cock slipped free of him. But he was a virgin and Thomas had- they had-

James laughed, a bitter but not entirely unhappy sound. “You could not hurt me, Thomas. Not as we are.”

The air rushed from his lungs in a long breath and he relaxed, laying beside James and feeling his chest tightened as the terrifying sea god curled into his side and nuzzled gently at his neck.

“To answer your question- no, it isn’t. In fact, I’ve never felt like this before... “ He kissed the top of James’ head, his lips brushing the edge of the garland that still sat entwined in the slowly dimming strands. “What happens when your task is finished? What happens when my father is dead?”

James drew into himself. The cabin seemed to dim as his face fell. “I… don’t know. This isn’t exactly a common occurrence for me.”

Thomas laughed gently and lifted James’ face for a kiss, desperate to bring some levity back to the moment. “Neither is it for me.”

They kissed again, slowly, the pleasure of the simple movement of their mouths calming Thomas’ pulse until he fell asleep with James’ breath brushing over his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

Across the sea on a sunny and warm afternoon, Miranda gazed out over the horizon. She thought of Thomas and wiped at her cheeks, fresh tears falling as she contemplated the desperate need for his safety. Grass moved in waves as the wind blew across it, the leaves of the nearby orchard rustling and the song of birds reaching her ears as though aching to soothe her soul.  A whimper rose and died in her throat. 

Then, as though emerging from the long grass, a woman strode towards her. She wore a long cotton skirt that flowed about her like a gown, and a short sleeved blouse that clung to her chest, white and so stark against the dark colour of her skin. Miranda stared despite herself; she had seen African ladies before, had been honoured with their company at some of Thomas’ less tolerated salons, but the ethereal and almost otherworldly beauty of this woman surpassed that of any woman Miranda had ever met. 

“Good afternoon,” the woman said in a low and haunting voice. “I believe you spoke to someone recently, someone I need to find.”

Miranda stepped forward and put a hand on the wall separating her from the woman in the long grass. “I’m not sure I understand. Who are you?”

The lady smiled, slow and serene, and Miranda felt the odd sensation of falling whilst standing in place. Then the lady spoke again. “My name is Madi; I have heard a cry that I cannot ignore, and I believe you will be able to help me silence that cry.”

An elegant hand reached out to her, the sound of bangles jangling together almost musical in the quiet of the day, and Miranda let herself be taken forward into the woman’s arms. 


	8. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ship approached, no flag up to identify her in response to the black flying on the Walrus. It was a modest size, bigger than Flint’s but heavier and less manoeuvrable. The sails were taken up as they watched and a flag was slowly hoisted up. From the nest high above, a man shouted “Ranger!”

_ “Sails!” _

The shout came from above, shocking Thomas from his sleep. Cold water dripped onto his cheek and lips, falling into his mouth and he jerked, struggled, shouted in terror as hands gripped his shoulders. He’s not going back, he  _ can’t _ go back no, please,  _ please _ _not again_ -

“Thomas,” a voice whispered, low and rumbling like a summer storm in his ear and the terror sank away. His eyes opened in a snap and it was  _ James _ . The low light lit his hair like burning coals and chased away the icy chill still clinging to Thomas’ chest. “It’s alright, Thomas. Hush.” James’ fingers caressed his cheek and held him, his presence soothing the ache his terror had left behind.

Thomas sobbed and leaned into the cool but gentle hand on his cheek. “I’m- I’m sorry, the nightmares don’t go away, it seems.”

“Nightmares?” James asked with a quirk of one eyebrow.

“You don’t have nightmares?” 

James shook his head. “I don’t truly sleep. Not the way you do.”

They stared at one another for a moment and Thomas noticed how their hips were slotted together, that the water was coming from James’ hair where it fell over his shoulder in loose and long curls.

“Are you needed on deck?” He asked at last in a voice that felt heavy with desire. James nodded and sighed, reached out to brush his thumb under Thomas’ cheekbone. He drew away reluctantly and Thomas dragged him back into a harsh kiss, chasing the saltwater taste of him and the feel of the tattoo reaching for him with its inky arms.

“I’ll be back. Get dressed, there’s water in the basin for you, too.”

He watched as James left and drew the blankets tighter around himself. The sudden shock of waking from a nightmare still lingered - he shut his eyes and pressed the blankets to his nose, breathed in the clean smell of them, not damp and moth-eaten like the ones he had seen in Bethlam from afar, used by prisoners or “patients” more deserving than him.

When he opened his eyes again, he felt steady. His chest eased and the pounding in his ears lessened until it was only a distant beat. Dressing was simple, though his clothes had become creased and crumpled on the floor where they had been left the night before.

And  _ oh _ , how it had felt to be loved again! His cheeks flushed as he remembered the fingers in his hair, the lips and teeth on his skin, the feel of being inside James and- His cock twitched, blood rushing north and south as he thought of how James had let him be the first to have him in such a way. Did virginity mean nothing to an ageless man? Did  _ sex _ even mean anything? If his reaction was anything to go by, it had meant enough. James had clung to him just as tightly, had moaned and cried out just as passionately as he himself had. 

The sound of shouting and crashing from above cut through his gentle reverie and he quickly threw the shirt over his shoulders.

On deck, there was a cacophony of noise and movement. Men rushed about carrying swords and pistols, some with dark paint on their faces and false teeth to make them appear more menacing than they were. Thomas shrank back against the wall behind him with wide eyes as he saw some of the quieter crew members suddenly grow loud and large and gruesome. Their skin became slick, grey and scaled, the teeth Thomas had thought prosthetic shown to be real as they gnashed and growled.

And there, standing on the side of the ship with his now short red hair flying about his head like a bloody halo, was Flint.

A ship approached, no flag up to identify her in response to the black flying on the Walrus. It was a modest size, bigger than Flint’s but heavier and less manoeuvrable. The sails were taken up as they watched and a flag was slowly hoisted up. From the nest high above, a man shouted “Ranger!”

Flint drew out his pistol and shot once, the shot hitting the water clearly just a few feet from the ship’s hull.

“Captain Vane!” He shouted, voice roaring across the open water to the ship coming to a stop. “You will send one man to speak for you if you do not come yourself, and I will allow parley and safe passage this once. Deny my request and I’ll drag you to the depths myself!”

Silence. There was no firing of cannons or shouts of reply.

Then, a small boat was lowered to the water. A single figure climbed down a rope into it and began to row.

Thomas walked towards the edge of the ship and looked up at Flint. “What’s happening?” He asked, half curious and half afraid of what might come of the man approaching. “You know him?”

Flint growled and pulled his lips back in a snarl. His teeth were startlingly white and pointed. Thomas had the sudden urge to see if they would cut his finger, to see if James would like the taste of his blood. “I know him by reputation. Clearly, he has less intelligence than I was led to believe if he thinks approaching me by sea is a good idea.” James stepped down and ran his hand over the jut of Thomas’ shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Thomas nodded, smiled, and glanced around nervously as the men on the ship began to calmly go about their duties. “Yes. Though… is your familiarity wise? Will your crew not have something to say?”

“About what?” James asked. And he was truly perplexed - he had no idea what it was like to be stared at because you wanted the touch of someone whose body was like your own. As Thomas looked about, he saw the men of the crew going about their duty with no mind to their captain, and no obvious motions to avert their gazes. They were simply  _ uninterested.  _ He shook his head and laughed, dragging James into a kiss he filled with all the joy and happiness he could. James leaned against him and moaned softly, the salt of his lips turning sweet and his fingers winding into the fabric of Thomas’ borrowed shirt.

“Um, Captain?” Billy asked from the side. He looked abashed, his arms crossed over his impressive chest and his eyes looking anywhere but at Thomas. “It’s definitely just Vane, but he’s got a small box with him. Want us to take it when he comes aboard?”

Flint’s lips twitched, his eyes narrowing as he looked out across the deck. The bright pleasure in his eyes had changed to a serious fury in moments. “No. Let him bring it. He’ll know he can’t kill me here, and if he was to try anything he’d be torn apart in seconds. That hunk of wood and brass is nothing compared to what I can muster…”

“And if they’re after him?” Billy jerked his head in Thomas’ direction.

Dark swirls of black began to swim in his eyes. “If they try to take him I’ll tear their ship apart, board by board and take each and every living soul on it to hell myself.”

Thomas shivered as the hand on his hip tightened to an iron grip. It grounded him, the only true stability aboard a ship in the middle of the ocean.

The moment was shattered as a man climbed over the side with an eerie, cat-like grace. He was immediately surrounded by Flint’s crew, swords and pistols pointed at him in deadly range. A small smile spread over his thin lips, the expression curtained by long dark hair.

“Captain Flint,” he said in a voice like a stone rolling over rough ground. “I believe I have some information that might be of interest to you.”

Flint stepped forward and put himself between Thomas and the man. “Oh? And what information might that be,  _ Captain _ Vane.” He bit out the title, clearly not fond of the taste on his tongue.

Captain Vane turned his head and looked at the men around him, seemingly unconcerned with the open hostility. “It’s something you’d probably prefer not to talk about up here in the open. Perhaps you’ll allow me to step into your cabin?”

James nodded his head, whistled, and jerked his head for Vane to follow.

“James-” Thomas whispered, grasping at James’ sleeve.

“It’s alright. Like I said - he can’t hurt me here.”

The words echoed in his mind as James went down into the cabin, followed by the man with a box tucked under his arm.

_ He can’t hurt me **here**. _


	9. Eight

He shut the cabin door behind them with a resounding click of the latch. As the bolt slid home he threw off the outer coat he wore, turning to face the man standing in his cabin with lidded eyes and an unimpressed twist of his lips. Of all the pirates to try and make a deal with him, it had to be  _ this _ one who actually tried to succeed.

Captain Vane shifted the box in his hands, idly bouncing it from palm to palm so that whatever was inside it rattled and shook. “You know,” he said, voice low and raspy, “you’re not a very welcoming host. And it  _ was  _ you who invited me onto your ship...”

“Do your business and leave,” James hissed. Saltwater tickled at the back of his neck and down his hands, dripping onto the floorboards. The drops flowed in small rivulets towards Vane’s feet and pooled around his boots. “I will only tolerate your presence for so long.”

“Oh, you’ll tolerate me for as long as I wish. I’ve got something of yours, something you’ve been missing for a while.”

He paused, stopping himself from rushing forward to grasp Vane’s throat and forcing the man to speak. It had been decades since he had last taken the water from a man’s body, but he had not forgotten the skill. Instead, he took a single step back. There were certain mortal creatures Flint was unwilling to deal with - some were due to dislike, some out of uncertainty; Charles Vane was both. But if there was a chance he could gain from such an encounter, it was unwise to throw it away by simply attacking. No matter how much he might have wanted to.

“What is it,” he asked under his breath. The air in the cabin turned cold, the breath coming from Charles’ nose billowing like mist as warm air met cool. 

“All sailors know about you,” Vane began, the box now held firmly in both hands before him. The cocky ease of his stance had firmed to something warrier. “You’re a creature to be feared and respected. No one takes your name in vain, no one tries to call your wrath through misguided hunts and mistreatment of crew or quarry. If giant monsters are seen, all ships steer clear until the creature in question is gone.  _ But _ ,” he looked down at the box and leaned back against the desk with a small huff of laughter, the cockiness returning slightly, “not all sailors have been a part of Blackbeard’s inner circle.”

Flint bristled. His hair rose about his head, tight curls no longer bright amber but dark like blood, his fingers turned to claws at the mention of the Pirate King. The coral crown on his head turned to sharpened sea glass and spiky sea anemones that writhed about his head like some monstrous spined serpent. “You dare say that name here-”

“Something was taken from you,” Vane continued, seemingly unconcerned with the monster who was inching towards him, and just as unconcerned with the ice-cold water climbing up his legs and burning his skin. “Blackbeard knew it, but could never find it. Avery knew it and ignored the signs to its resting place. I know you’re a heartless beast, but-”

Relief flooded him. “If you’re suggesting my heart is in that box, I’ll rip yours out to compare the two. You’ll soon see you were fooled.”

A laugh fell from Charles’ lips and Flint was gratified to see a spark of fear behind those bright eyes, short-lived though it was. “Not your heart, no.”

He shook the box again, lightly this time, and reached for the clasp at the front of it.

Flint trembled as the man flicked the clasp open, the roar of the steadily rising waves crashing against the unmoving ship dim as the sound of glass rolling over wood reached his ears.

Vane reached in and brought out a single vial of dark liquid. He turned it in the light, the shimmering blues and golds glinting like gold dust in ink. “Teach told me there was one thing that could control you, one thing that would negate the need for sacrifice and ritual and fear. The thing you gave up and replaced with the sea. Blood.”

He gripped the vial and began to twist the stopper free. Flint roared louder than the thunder outside and flung himself forward to grasp at the vial before Vane could open it, the water around the pirate’s legs turned to ice and held him fast as Flint clawed at him to take the vial.

To his surprise, Vane let him take it.

“I’m not here to take that control. I don’t want it,” Charles said, his teeth beginning to chatter as the temperature of the room plummeted further.

Flint cradled the vial to his chest, his claws clinking against the glass. “Then… what do you want?”

“Freedom.”

He looked up, saw the earnest need on Vane’s face, and drew the water back. The cracking of ice slowly faded as the cold retreated, and his temper returned to him as Vane slumped against the table and caught his breath. 

“As far as I know, that’s all the blood left. The rest was spilt somewhere I can’t go, somewhere I don’t think even you can go anymore. No one will get it now. You’ve killed anyone who crossed you, and I don’t intend to die any time soon.”

The vial was warm in his hands. It made his fingers pink with life, made him feel warm in a way that only-

_ Thomas _ .

He closed his eyes and shuddered, missing the flicker of red light that burst inside the vial for a moment. Vane saw and said nothing.

“Name your price. Freedom is a concept, not a ransom.”

Vane rolled his shoulders and stood tall again. “There’s a man I need dead. What he did to me deserves that much at least. After that, I leave, and you never have to deal with me again.”

“One life?” He quirked an eyebrow. “You bid me take one life for something that would give you power over me?”

Vane nodded.

“Name him, and he’ll be dead tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Thomas was waiting for him on deck when they emerged. Gates stood beside him and held onto his arm, seeming to hold him steady as the ship regained it's balance on the slowly calming ocean. Flint held his head high as he and Vane walked towards the members of his crew on deck. The deal had been struck with a handshake, not with blood. It was odd to do so and Flint’s mind reeled at the idea of freedom, of what the little jar in his cabin meant …

“James?” Thomas asked, immediately reaching forward to put a hand to Flint’s cheek. And he was warm, still so warm. James felt a pulse in his chest and ached with it. He wanted to press his cheek to Thomas' chest and rest there, to put his unending life in Thomas' hands until the two of them became one body at the bottom of the ocean.

He turned to Gates and Billy with a hard-won sternness. “Captain Vane is going back to his ship. He will follow us to our destination, we will conduct our business there, and then he and his crew will depart. Vane, you have my leave to set our course.”

As the three men began to discuss the course to be taken, James reached out to take Thomas’ hand in his own and lead him below to the cabin with an urgency he hadn’t realised he was capable of. With the door shut and the object of his desire before him, Flint felt his chest begin to beat wildly. His hair curled tightly around his face and the warmth of Thomas’ hand seemed to flow up his arm and through his chest.

He threw himself into Thomas’ arms, dragging him into a kiss that had no finesse or style to it. Their teeth clashed, tongues pressing and sucking and James was on fire . He let the clothes on his body dissolve into sea foam, leaving just a thin shimmer of gold behind as he ripped at Thomas’ borrowed shirt and breeches, desperate to touch his skin and feel more of the warmth he naturally exuded. The tattoo rolled over his shoulders and slithered down his arms, curled around his fingers to grasp at Thomas and bring him close, the tendrils of it turning vivid azure as they came into contact with Thomas’ skin. He felt the sting of heat like a brand as Thomas’ fingertips pressed hard into his hips and a guttural moan fell from his lips like thunder.

“ _ Please _ ,” he whispered, words lost in the space between his mouth and Thomas’ neck, their cocks hard and leaking between their bodies as he began to rut against the man with desperate hitches of his hips.

Thomas gasped as James’ tattoo reached further up his body, not stopping until it had wrapped around him and tied them together. The gasp became a shout as James sought out more of that warmth, the fire that lived within Thomas. He reached behind the man, pressed a wet finger into him and felt his own body respond to the shiver which ran down Thomas’ spine.

“James- James let me touch you,” Thomas begged. He put his hands on James’ shoulders and pushed, put a little distance between them and James’ eyes flashed as he saw- as he thought he saw-

Tears fells down his cheeks as warm as the life-giving currents of the gulf stream as he saw into Thomas’ heart. Echoes of past lovers, of evenings spent with his wife reading and talking, fleeting images of an older woman and then James with his hair long and loose as he leaned up to kiss Thomas. He saw all those moments in Thomas’ heart and felt the deep ache of emptiness in his own being replaced by the bright fire that lived in Thomas’ soul.

The tattoo had left marks on him - rings of bright blue and green around his wrists and biceps, a long trail of them running down his chest. James held up a hand to touch them and whined as the claws on his fingers felt the raised flesh. “Did I hurt you?” He asked in a whisper.

Thomas shook his head and wiped the tears from James’ cheeks, bent down to lick the saltwater from his own fingers. “Never, James. You’d never hurt me.”

They kissed again, a soft and gentle thing this time that made fresh tears spring from his eyes. When had he last cried? When had he last felt an emotion other than rage and fury and blood-red satisfaction? As Thomas pressed inside him with unhurried thrusts and held him close, James found he didn’t care. And, as Thomas kissed him and kissed him and  _ kissed _ him, he found he didn’t want to care. He wanted nothing more than to hold this mortal man and love him for as long as time would allow. 

Thomas spread him out on the floor of the cabin, neither of them caring about the harsh wood beneath them, and lay over him. He thrust into James with slow and gentle motions, his cock buried deep and pressed so perfectly inside him that James felt more tears threaten to spill from his eyes. He sucked greedily on Thomas’ neck, bit and gasped and let the beauty of their coupling wash over him even as his tattoo began to creep over Thomas’ skin again.

He didn’t see it turn a deep orange on Thomas’ back, didn’t see the pink flush on his own skin instead of the usual blue hue it usually held. He didn’t see the circling of jellyfish below the ship forming the shape of their bodies as they made love in the small cabin. All he saw were flashes of gold behind his eyelids and the love in Thomas’ eyes.

In its box safe on the desk, the small vial began to glow once more.


	10. Nine

The Ranger followed behind the Walrus as they made their way across the ocean. The crews of both ships busied themselves with tasks; hauling rope, cooking, dividing rations, shifting the lessening cargo as the days passed, measuring depths and taking note of wind changes, adjusting the sails and steering through the waves.

Thomas watched in undisguised awe as James commanded his men. He listened to them talk both flatteringly and unflatteringly about their captain alike. Billy kept them all in check and watched curiously as Thomas wandered about the ship, often accompanied by Hal Gates or, on occasion, Mr Dufresne who entertained him with rather exaggerated tales of his own exploits. Thomas learned of their lives aboard the Walrus, how they had all died or offered their services depending on the “crimes” they had committed. Some served for a number of years before finding release in death, some stayed on for their own reasons and lived well beyond the normal lifespan of a mortal man.

“I was a smuggler,” Hal told him, eyes focused out on the ocean, “sugar and booze mostly, never touched anything reprehensible but… I did my fair share of damage over the years. I was snapped up by Flint’s crew good long while ago. Decided after a couple of years I’d stay and try to keep him company.”

“Keep him company?” Thomas asked.

Hal nodded. “Being what he is, there’s not much chance to make friends or be social beyond the people he has as crew. After a little while, I saw how lonely he was, got to understand his sense of humour and love of literature and mythology. When Billy was brought on board, I had even more reason to stay.”

Thomas looked up the length of the ship to where Billy Bones, William Manderly that was, had a large amount of rope under one arm and the shoulder of another crew member under one gentle hand. “Would you tell me his story? I don’t think he likes me much.”

“He doesn’t mind you!” Hal said with a laugh. “He’s just- he doesn’t trust anyone born with more than a handful of things to their name. He’s from a poor family, was press-ganged as a child and treated like shit for most of his youth. He was on death’s door when Flint offered him revenge and, despite butting heads from time to time, they respect one another. He’s a son to me, and I’ve done my best to guide him in this life.”

They lapsed into silence as Flint wandered onto the deck and stood by Billy’s side, the two of them sharing words before Billy nodded and hefted the rope over his shoulder with a small twitch of his lips.

James looked over at where Thomas and Hal were stood, the wind caught his hair and ruffled it, seemed to blow it in Thomas’ direction and he could almost smell the salt in those red curls. It made something hot curl in his belly, something like pinpricks travelled up his arms and over his back. It reminded him of how it felt when James’ tattoo pressed into his skin.

The exchange didn’t go unnoticed. Hal made a soft sound and leaned against the post behind him. “I feel I should warn you away from the path you’re on,” he said, not unkindly.

Thomas bit his lip, thought of Miranda warning him about his own father and how dangerous it was to defy him. “You’re not the first person to say that to me.”

Hal chuckled. “You seem like a man unwilling to listen to things he doesn't like. But you do need to think carefully about this. About  _ him _ . There’s not much good can come from falling for someone who’ll outlive you by more than just years.”

“And yet I already have.”

The words slipped out before he had even finished the thought. Hal raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.

In the following evenings he retired to James’ cabin and waited for the immortal to join him. On the third night, he entered the cabin to the sight of James in a white silken chemise, stockings covering his feet and calves, his skin flushed a dull blue as he stood to take Thomas in his arms. Thomas marvelled at how the blue flush became pink as they made love, the coldness of his mouth and hands becoming warm as their bodies moved together on the pile of blankets and cushions James had amassed for them.

Even as he lifted James, pressed him to the wall of the cabin and took him roughly, the captain’s legs wound tight around his hips and stockings slipping down to his ankles, Thomas kept his gaze on the colour of James’ skin. His cheeks had gone a pretty pink, the cold darkness in his eyes had become a bright and warm green almost the colour of grass. His hair hung loosely over his shoulders, the coral crown replaced with a glittering gold diadem, it’s gilded tassels of shells and pearls tangled in the red tresses. Thomas pressed his face to James’ neck, breathed in the salt-scent of his skin and arched into the feel of the tattoo gripping his back. There were permanent marks on him now from that grip - he spent long hours tracing the shape of them when he was alone and wondered if they would ever fade. 

“I love you,” he hissed as  _ le petit mort _ swept over him like a riptide. It dragged him to a depth of something, his eyes squeezing shut and a bright light flashing behind his eyelids as James’ gasps rolled over him. In his mind he saw James’ face, pink and freckled and alive in a way an immortal god could not be. He saw James in a cottage by the sea with dirt under his nails, hair tied loosely in a bun and sweat on his forehead from working the land. He saw the two of them entwined in a real bed, the sheets tangled between their legs as they read together, the sound of crockery and humming coming from the kitchen, and he recognised Miranda’s voice even in that hazy dream.

James made a pained sound as he came, arms and legs tightening around Thomas almost as much as the tattoo’s arms on his back. It took Thomas a moment to realise they were both weeping.

He brushed the tears from James' cheeks, tasted them, found them sweet instead of salty.

“Thomas-” James started, his eyes wide and so  _ green… _ “Let me show you something.”

The chemise fell to the floor unnoticed as James padded in stockinged feet to a small lockbox on the desk. He opened it with a flick of his fingers and drew out a pouch. The dark fabric glimmered as a light shone from within.

James took Thomas’ hand and sat them on the pile of blankets, their knees touching as he put the bag in Thomas’ free palm.

“Look inside,” he said.

Thomas opened the pouch and drew out a heavy silver chain with an ornate clasp, and had to stifle a gasp as bright light issued forth from inside the dark pouch. Hanging from the chain was a vial, the size of his palm and tapered to a point. Inside the vial was a swirling ocean of colour and liquid light. It swirled about in the vial like a tempest before the light balled into a small flame within the depths of the contents of the vial.

“What is it?” He asked in an awed whisper. The light shivered and brightened as he spoke.

“My blood. Or what’s left of it.”

He looked up sharply, eyes wide. “Your blood?”

James nodded and took the vial from his hands. “When I was  _ born _ , because I was born and not just created, my mortal mother died. I was swept out to sea in a storm and the old God of the sea took pity on me. They raised me, fed me on ambrosia and the toxins from jellyfish stings. As I grew older it became clear I would have to leave and live or stay and perish. I chose to stay. The old God told me that the only way I could stay was to relinquish my life’s blood and replace it with the very blood of the ocean.”

His fingers became claws and he sliced the pad of one fingertip, the liquid dripping from the wound clear and thin, not like blood at all. Thomas watched in morbid fascination as the wound healed before his eyes.

“If a mortal has my blood, they have my life in their hands. They can control me, if they wish, and thus control the seas. This is what Captain Vane had when he came aboard. He didn’t wish to control me. And now I have a choice set before me.”

Thomas leaned forward and tried to look his lover in the eye. “Whatever choice you have to make,” he said softly, “I will stand with you.”

“And if I choose to stay here? If I choose to keep my ship and crew, my immortality?”

Thomas swallowed the lump in his throat, pushed the sudden pain in his chest aside and took James’ hands in his own. “Then… You can have my blood.”

James recoiled, his eyes turning an icy blue and the pink flush of his skin returning to the blue it had been before. “No,” he hissed, gathering the vial to his chest. Thomas could hear the wood of the ship’s hull creek below them. “I have found life in you, I won’t be the one to take it!”

“And if I were to become like you?”

They stared at one another. James’ diadem glinted in the candlelight, it tarnished before Thomas’ eyes and the flames of the candles died, plunging them into darkness.

“You… would do that?” He asked, his voice so young and delicate that it broke Thomas’ heart. Had no one offered to take that step for him? Had nobody, not even Gates, thought of spending eternity with this man as an equal? He supposed not.

Thomas nodded and gently unfurled James’ clenched fists. He took the vial and kissed the strangely warm glass. “I would spend aeons with you. I would defy God and His Angels for you. If that means giving up my humanity, I’ll gladly do so.”

James’ skin became warm and pink, the peaks of his nipples a dusky brown as Thomas’ hands roamed over his chest and shoulders, the constellations of his freckles parting and disbanding where his hands disturbed them. The vial was warm as he put it aside and kissed James with every atom of love he felt in his body.

 

* * *

 

 

They reached the island Vane had set the course to in just under a week. No signs of life met them on the beach, and James reluctantly allowed Thomas to come with them, giving in to his demands of solid ground and sand between his toes. Captain Vane and his two most trusted crewmates, a man called Jack Rackham who looked like an overdressed rake to Thomas’ eyes, and a woman just as fierce and beautiful as James named Anne Bonny, lead the way through the dense trees.

They set camp at dusk in a clearing by a fresh and clean stream. Vane stoked the fire with a face like thunder.

“I never wanted to come back here,” he said quietly. Thomas looked up and met James’ eyes as the pirate captain began to speak. “Albinus deserves worse than death, worse than the fate you can give him, but he’s taken refuge on this island and I can’t be here alone without meeting that fate myself.”

“What Charles means is that there is more to this island than meets the eye,” Rackham said, long legs crossed beneath him and an arm draped over Anne Bonny’s shoulders. She seemed to accept the contact with a quiet deference, something that intrigued Thomas to no end. “Rumor has it there’s a witch here who takes white men captive and eats their souls to sustain her power.”

Bonny snorted, one of the few sounds she’d made since they landed on shore. “Load of shite.”

“ _ Shite _ or not, it still stands that no one has come to this island and left it alive. Rather dramatic, I admit, but not untrue.”

Thomas rubbed at the sudden chill forming over his arms and wished he had stayed aboard the Walrus with Joshua. The youthful man could have told him stories and acted out the more energetic parts to keep him occupied for a while.

“Witch or no witch, having a god on our side will get us out of here alive,” Charles said evenly. “Once Albinus is dead our deal will be done and I’ll take my crew and go somewhere less disturbing.”

A cry echoed through the trees, loud and high, like a cat much larger than the strays in London. Thomas flinched, his pulse pounding under his skin as a shadow fell over the camp. Beside him, James rose to his feet and drew the curved sword from his belt.

“If you want to leave,” a voice said, lilting and beautiful, “you must first prove you are worthy of leaving.”

A figure stepped out from the trees, a dark-skinned woman in simple clothing, her hair tied in braids behind her head. She looked at each of them in turn with an assessing gaze and Thomas felt as though his very soul had been weighed. Against what, he did not know.

The woman fixed her eyes on James with a sad smile.

“Captain Flint, you endanger yourself by coming here. Do you seek my aid?”

James sheathed his sword slowly and moved to stand between the woman and Thomas. “I do not. But what aid would you have to give me?”

The woman’s smile deepened, a light beginning to shine from something in her hand.

“Mortality.”


	11. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Back!!!! We continue where we left off and venture into the realm of PLOT as opposed to me indulging in pretty prose and romance. 
> 
> Get ready for something to actually happen for once. \o/

The word hung heavily in the air between those gathered there. The fire flickered, crackled, damp wood popping as it burned and James felt a dull fury rise in his veins. 

“And who are  _ you  _ to offer me such impossibilities? Do you mock me?” He hissed, forgetting the others as he reached for the cutlass at his side. 

Within seconds his body was caught in an invisible grip. His muscles strained against bonds he could not see, the roaring of his one absent heartbeat now  almost deafening in his ears. Before him the woman stepped forward on bare feet with a hand outstretched. 

“You will not speak to me so,  _ Kraken _ . You will address me with the honour and respect I am due, or I will take the sharp tongue from your mouth and make it dull.” She lifted her hand and made it into a fist. Flint felt the tension around his body tighten, the air he did not need squeezed from his lungs in a rush. He gasped, eyes widening and body convulsing as dry heat suffused throughout him. 

Thomas ran to him and cried out, his hands grasping at James’ still form desperately. “Stop- Stop! Let him go!”

The lady turned her gaze to him and something in her face softened. “Ah; you must be Thomas. I have heard much about you.”

The grip on Flint’s body loosened and he fell to his knees, leaning into Thomas as he crouched to take James into his arms. Something akin to realisation dawned in James’ mind as he leaned against Thomas. He lifted himself and fell to one knee. Whoever, or  _ whatever _ , this woman was she was powerful and not to be insulted.

“I have done you a disservice, and I apologise,” he said softly. She nodded once and gestured to the camp. 

“You and your companions may remain here on my island for a time. Though the quarry you seek -” she looked at Vane with an assessing glance, “is under my domain.”

Vane opened his mouth to speak but James glared at him. He shut his mouth and made a dissatisfied sound in his throat. 

“If we might know your name, my Lady, we would happily submit to your will,” James continued. He felt a thrum of something echo through the clearing and wondered if the realisation, the  _ recognition _ , he felt was right. 

The woman considered him for a moment and her gaze was so striking he almost felt afraid. But then, with a small tilt of her head, she spoke again. “You may call me Madi. I am the protector of my people here, and they call me Princess. Follow me and I will lead you to more… comfortable resting places.”

James stood and bowed his head. Thomas, he noticed, did the same. He took Thomas’ hand and calmed him, felt the warmth spread through his body at the simple touch and was himself calmed. 

Behind them, Rackham and Vane began to talk in low tones that James could not hear. They were at odds with the situation but seemed to agree that compliance was more likely to get them what they wanted than hostility. Anne walked at their side silently, her eyes trained on the woman leading them through dense trees and over uneven ground to a large camp of well made huts and houses. Thomas gasped beside him. James found himself smiling at the reaction and jostled their shoulders together. 

“I doubt this is the most wonderous thing we’ll be seeing today,” he said under his breath. 

“Truly?” Thomas responded, still gazing out at the settlement before them with wide eyes. James nodded and helped Thomas down a particularly steep slope as they came to the main pathway leading into the settlement. 

Madi was met by several people, some young and one or two very old, all with dark skin and eyes that watched the newcomers with fear and barely suppressed hatred. Considering the ships Flint had encountered of slaves treated no better than animals, he was not surprised. The villagers bowed and spoke to Madi in a language Flint did not understand. Madi replied in the same language with a regal smile, the smile widening as the villagers relaxed and let them pass with wary looks. 

“I will take you to my mother,” Madi said at length, her skirt brushing against the packed earth that served as a path. “She will make the final decision on whether or not you are allowed to leave, and then I will take you to your wife.”

Thomas gasped, his body going rigid even as he strode forward to walk in step with the princess. “Miranda is here?” He said in a voice filled with longing. James felt a stab of something in his chest, what he assumed to be jealousy. Thomas had offered his life not long ago -  would he leave James to be reunited with his wife? The thought pained him, made his skin feel cold and the steady blue of the world dim to a dull grey. 

Madi nodded and reached out, her hand falling on Thomas’ shoulder. “She is. I have spent long nights talking to her, easing her fears and hearing of your life together. She misses you. She thought you were dead.”

Thomas began to weep. James ached, his body moving to comfort his lover before he had even commanded it to move. But, as he drew closer, he noticed Madi’s hands touch Thomas’ chest and a ripple of warmth flow through the very air around them. 

“Peace, Thomas; all will be well.”

Madi took them further through the village to a large two storey building. She beckoned for them to climb the steps. “Wait here a moment,” she said, “I will introduce you. My mother, the Queen, will hear each of your journeys and judge if they are true.”

She went through a dark doorway and James felt Thomas grip his hand tight. Behind them, Vane muttered a curse. 

“We aren’t safe here, no matter what she says,” he uttered. 

Rackham made a sound of agreement. 

James thought of mortality, of the strange power this woman held and the easy way she moved through the earth and considered his own nature. Madi obviously knew who he was. She knew what he  _ wanted _ , as well. He looked at Thomas and let himself begin to hope.  


End file.
